AN:So, quick resume of the first part of this story, for those who haven't read Resurrection. Three months after Savoy, Athos joins the garrison and is put to the test by fighting Porthos. Aramis, having secluded himself from regular Musketeer business, insists on now being called René and works at the sickrooms. Treville, fearing any retaliation on part of the Cardinal or the Duke of Savoy, has kept secret Aramis' involvement in the massacre and the fact that there were, in fact, two survivors.

Three men infiltrate the garrison and blow up the gunpowder barrels stored in the armory, resulting in a number of wounded and dead.

Two of the assailants find themselves trapped in the sickrooms, together with Porthos, Athos and René, eventually resulting in one of them being killed and the other, wounded, taken prisoner by Treville.

The Cardinal, claiming that Treville is too close to the matter to be impartial, takes charge of the prisoner.

Now

The cell was dark and moist, water dripping from the ceiling as if the Seine itself ran above those walls and was gently asking permission to come inside.

The man sat against the stone wall, his eyes fixed on the first rays of sun shyly peeking between the iron bars of the lonely window.

It had been months since he had last felt the cool touch of the wind or basked his skin in the warmth of the sun. Still, he knew that the odds of him stepping outside, other than to meet the noose, were close to none. He would almost welcome it, if it meant stepping outside those four, decaying walls.

The sound of footsteps, echoing down the hall, sent all of his rat companions skittering away for the closest hole.

No one had come to ask him any questions. No one had cared about what he had to say, but still the man had held on to the knowledge that, if he were to open his mouth and whisper the right words into the proper ears, he might still be saved.

The heavy wooden door cringed as it was pushed open, dirty straw creasing the floor in its path. The figure that stood at the threshold of his cell door was imposing in his spotless garb, perfectly conscious of the power he wielded. His, unfortunately, were not the right ears to whisper words to. He was not there to save him.

The man knelt in front of the figure and kissed the black stone on his ring, as it was appropriate for someone above his station. "I haven't said a word," he whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse.

The robed figure looked down without a hint of compassion in his blue gaze. "And for that, our employer has kept you safe, as promised."

"I've done well, then?" the man asked, an uncontrollable tremor taking hold of his whole being. "Can I go home now?"

The robed figure slowly pulled a thin dagger from his left sleeve, putting his hand over the man's head, as if in blessing. "Yes."

~§~

Treville leaned against the balcony outside his office, gazing down upon the men in the yard. The clatter of cups and plates had replaced that of swords and fists, as most of the men training that morning had sat down to enjoy their midday meal.

The smell of sweat, dirty straw and horses was commonplace at the garrison, but even that didn't seem to deter the men from gulping Serge's stew by the mouthful.

Murmurs of conversation reached his ears, but Treville paid no attention to any in particular. Men would be men and their conversations would always orbit around boasting, whether the subject matter were women or their prowess with sword and musket. Here and there he could hear a whisper of a different topic, muted voices tempted to speak ill about one of their own rank, to discuss recent events, but as soon as they sensed the Captain's gaze upon them, those words would die down and the dialogue would veer once more to harmless, trivial matters.

The quaint quotidian was broken by the sound of small feet, tapping hurriedly against the cobblestones, as a little boy stumbled breathlessly across the entry arch and barged into the garrison's grounds. There were strings of sweat streaming down the lad's dirty face and his hands were covered in blood.

The men grew silent.

"The...Cap...tain," the boy gasped out, looking around the yard, searching the many concerned faces that surrounded him. "Where's the Captain?"

Treville was already halfway down the stairs before hearing his name being called. He rushed to the lad's side, his eyes searching for a wound to explain all the blood. "Are you hurt?"

The boy shook his head, greasy hair barely moving. "You the Captain?"

Treville nodded.

"Ya must come, then!" the boy said, grabbing Treville's hand to pull him away. Blood made the contact sticky, like glue binding their hands.

The Captain gently resisted. "What has happened? Go where?"

"T'dead man, Captain," the lad spoke, glaring at him like it was such an obvious thing. "There's a dead man in maman's cellar!"

~§~

Three days before

The King's Musketeers had been formed, nearly three years before, to guard and protect the King and Queen whenever they stepped outside the royal grounds. At its best, it meant long periods of idly standing guard as the royal family strolled the gardens or received guests; at worst, crowd control for when they chose to parade themselves amongst the commoners.

Currently, it meant watching over Louis XIII as he trampled the snow-covered woods near Paris, scaring away all possibility of any quarry to be caught. Because when the King decided that he wanted to hunt, hunting they went, even if it was the middle of winter and most animals were either hibernating or hiding away.

Aramis stood to the side, keeping a clear view of both the monarch and the woods ahead, his keen eyes more attentive to any possibility of danger to the King than to any lost fox, yet to be scared away by Louis' loud complaints.

With him stood Athos and Porthos, flanking him like personal guards of his own. Aramis had to smile to himself. Since these two had taken him under their wings, he seemed to have been promoted to royalty himself, with his own private following. On the days it didn't become stifling, it was absolutely flattering.

For reasons he couldn't completely understand, the three of them had become quite close, enjoying each other's company whether it was during training or drinking. Aramis would even go so far as to call them friends. Good friends.

This was, however, the first time that Treville had sent them on the same assignment, dull as it was.

Aramis was not one to complain. In fact, he was thankful to have such an understanding commanding officer, one who seemed to recognize and accept the reality that even a Musketeer needed some time to return to his old self after such dramatic events. There had been other commanding officers in his career who, Aramis was sure, would have not been so lenient.

To his shame, there were still days that he woke up covered in sweat, unaware of where he was, days that he could hear the screaming of his murdered brothers in the wind, days when his hands trembled so badly that he could not keep hold of his pistols, much less load them or fire them.

Looking down for a moment, Aramis was happy to see that today was not one of those days. Today, he was certain, was going to be a good day.

"Ah! I see one!" Louis yelled like an overexcited child, waving his musket wildly as he readjusted his position to aim at the unsuspecting animal.

Aramis looked in the direction the monarch was pointing, seeing nothing more than a broken tree trunk and snow. He supposed the two branches sticking out could be confused for fox ears...

The shot rang out in the otherwise quiet woods, sending a few crows scattering. The ball hit its mark, if the spray of splinters was anything to go by.

"Did I hit it?" Louis enquired of the nearest Musketeer, squinting at a distance. "Well?"

The man, startled to have been addressed personally by the King and trying to suppress his mirth at the cluelessness of the current ruler of France, stuttered a few excuses before offering to personally go and find out.

Aramis hid a smirk of his own, knowing that Poitier had scurried away on purpose, lest he lost his composure and disgraced himself by laughing at the King. He was wondering how the man would report back that the King had killed a dead tree when a pair of wiggling fingers entered his field of vision.

"Your musket, soldier!" the King demanded. "I see another one and I shan't miss this time," he added with a toothy smile.

Aramis offered a slight nod of his head, mostly to hide the annoyance in his eyes. He could see that one of the King's servants was nearly done with reloading the monarch's own weapon, so he could see no reason to surrender his. A soldier's musket was his own, and like most in the regiment, Aramis disliked when his weapon was used by others.

The King, however, was not a patient man.

Unclipping it from his belt, Aramis handed Louis the loaded weapon, suppressing a sigh of resignation. He would have to clean and realign the whole thing once the King was done ruining it...

Louis took aim and Aramis followed the barrel to look for the intended target. To his surprise, there truly was a fox in the woods this time, peeking from under a large tree root, a red-furred little thing, apparently unaware of their presence.

It took but a second, as the wind changed, to alert the animal to their scent and send it in flight, escaping at a fast run. The King, intent on not returning to the palace empty-handed, followed its path through the woods, eyes on nothing else but the kill.

Everyone failed to notice that the fox was running towards Poitier's position. Aramis realized their mistake at the same moment the King squeezed the trigger and sent the ball flying.

By the time Aramis pushed the weapon away, it was already too late.

Poitier stumbled back, confusion plain in his face as he looked towards the King and the others. His hand rose to touch his left side, red blossoming through his fingers as he collapsed to the ground like a piece of discarded cloth.

The King looked around, confusion on his face as he slowly realized that his shot had done such damage. After all, he had been aiming at a fox, not a Musketeer. "Look what your weapon made me do!" he yelled at Aramis, anger and petulance covering his nervousness.

Aramis, however, was barely listening, as he raced towards the fallen Musketeer. He was aware that others were beside him, but their presence was barely noted.

There were too many bodies clouding his vision, too many dead soldiers with their throats slit and he couldn't find Poitier amidst all the ghosts. All he could see was the white snow and the blood, soaking it red.

~§~

Porthos was not accustomed to long bouts of utter stillness. More than a personality trait, it was something that he had learned to avoid and hate. For those born and raised in the Court of Miracles, to linger too long in the same place meant a dark cell or worse, the gallows.

Stillness, Porthos had soon discovered, was the most trying part of his training to become a Musketeer. Using his fists - and just about everything else he could lay his hands on - in a fight was something that he was more than familiar with, so when Treville had put a sword in his hands, it hadn't felt much different from the life he had known thus far.

Horseback riding had taken some practice, he would admit, but all the horses in the Musketeers' stables were well-bred, trained animals. All it had taken to make a rider out of him had been a few months of getting to know and appreciate those fine animals and - more than - a few tumbles to the ground whenever the horse grew tired of his lack of experience.

Stillness, however...

Porthos was sure that Treville had given him such a dull assignment just to make him suffer the lack of action until he either died or came to accept it as a part of his duties.

The Musketeer was growing more and more certain that death was the most likely outcome, especially if he had to listen to one more boring and trivial conversation between Richelieu and the King, about affairs as dull as the naming of the new prize dog in the King's household.

Beside him, Athos and Aramis seemed to be faring much better, which only added to the big man's annoyance. Aramis' apparent nonchalance at such a torturous assignment could easily be stacked to the man's prior experience, if not as a Musketeer, certainly as a soldier. And Athos...the man seemed eerily at ease in the midst of such a regal environment, almost as if he'd been born to it. Which, for all he knew about the man, he could have.

There had been some rumors circling the garrison about Athos' background and past. Most seemed to agree that he was either high-born or, at the very least, from an influential family. Why the man chose to keep the matter under such a veil of mystery and silence was precisely the reason why the gossip had started, as none of the Musketeers could think of an honorable reason to act in such manner.

It mattered not to Porthos. His past was certainly something that he wished to keep to himself, so it would be nothing short of hypocrisy for him to try and pry into the past of others.

In fact, the former thief thought that such an opinion and stance, shared by Athos and Aramis, played a large part in why the three of them had gravitated towards one another. Each with his own dark memories, happy to keep them to themselves, recognizing and respecting that same want in the others.

Much in the same manner that neither had ever thought to inquire Athos about his upbringing, Porthos had never asked what had possessed such a skilled Musketeer like Aramis to close himself into the garrison's sickrooms or why he had been so vehement about not being called by his name, insisting on answering to René instead. Nor would he ever ask about the reasons that had convinced Aramis to rejoin the regiment. Porthos was just thankful that he did.

The utter dullness of the current assignment lent itself to a certain degree of relaxation and ease, something that the Captain had strongly advised them against. 'A Musketeer', he had said more than once, 'is always sharp and on his guard, even if his assignment is nothing more than watching paint dry on a portrait'.

The King's antics while trying to shoot imaginary animals, were far more entertaining than drying paint and Porthos, like the others, had been content to just follow the events with a mostly-contained smirk on his face. They were all surprised by the fact that danger, when it was set upon them, had not been directed at the King, but rather came from him.

A trained soldier would have never shot a weapon with one of his brothers in the line of fire. But the King was no soldier.

Aramis had sprinted towards the fallen man and Porthos, after exchanging a concerned glance with the Captain, hurried to follow. There were plenty of Musketeers and Red Guards left to protect the King and the Cardinal; he could well go and assist the wounded man.

He didn't have Aramis' dexterity and knowledge of herbs and ointments, but he had dealt with his fair share of firearm wounds before. The presence of a proper physician in the Court of Miracles had been a miracle in itself and most of the time, the people who lived there had to fend for themselves the best they could. Even if that meant digging out a musket ball with the tip of his fingers or the point of a dagger.

Aramis was already fussing over Poitier, pulling and tearing at his doublet to reach the source of the blood. Poitier, awake and more in control of his wits now that the surprise and shock had somewhat worn off, was trying to push the medic away. "Told you I'm fine, Aramis," he insisted, trying to grab hold of his hands before Aramis could tear another hole in his shirt. "'tis nothing but a scratch!"

At first, Porthos was certain the man was merely too stunned by the shot to understand the seriousness of his own wound, as he had seen happen so many times before. The mind turned sluggish and inattentive to the ailings of the body and a missing limb could go unnoticed even by the sharpest of men. But as he surveyed Poitier's chest with his own eyes, Porthos could see that the ball had indeed only grazed across his left side, forming a shallow groove between his ribs that was, even now, sluggishly bleeding.

Porthos was just about to point that out when he caught a glimpse of his friend's face. Aramis' was paler than Poitier, his eyes wild and frantic, like a scared animal. His fingers, red from where he had touched Poitier's wound, fumbled at the man's neck, pressing harder and harder, like he was searching for signs of life with growing desperation.

Poitier recoiled from the touch, terror entering his eyes as Aramis kept on pressing, entirely missing the fact that the Musketeer was not only alive, but in full control of his senses.

"Help!" Poitier gasped, his voice broken by fear and the pressure on his neck. "For the love of God, help me!"

"Aramis, that's enough," Porthos voiced, silently wondering how his usually observant friend had missed the fact that Poitier was talking, screaming at him. The younger Musketeer, however, seemed deaf to any of their voices. "Aramis..."

Porthos could barely believe what was happening, a stupor that made him react a second too late as Poitier's screams for help grew in volume and attracted the attention of the rest of the hunting party. When he could no longer deny that Aramis was not acting like himself and causing harm to the injured man, the tall Musketeer grabbed hold of his friend's limber shoulders and physically pulled him away from Poitier. "Aramis, stop!"

The other man wasn't listening, mumbling under his breath, faint words that Porthos had to strain to understand. "They're not dead, I can help. They're not dead, I can help. They're not dead, I can..."

"Aramis!"

This time the voice, belonging to Treville, managed to cut through the incessant stream of jumbled words pouring from Aramis' lips. His mouth froze mid-sentence, the rest of the words dying in his throat as Aramis searched his surroundings, his face coloring as he found himself all but sitting on Porthos' lap and with the whole court staring at him.

~§~

Having followed the Captain towards the commotion, Athos was the first to move. He shared a silent stare with Porthos, communicating the urgency to remove Aramis from the scene before more people saw what was happening and the state he was in.

Grabbing hold of one bony wrist, Athos prompted Aramis to his feet, while Porthos supported him from the other side. It was high time they took their friend away from the King's scrutiny.

The Musketeer was pliant and subdued, his body racked with ever-increasing tremors that seemed intent on tearing him apart at the seams.

"We'll see to it that Aramis gets to the garrison, Captain," Athos informed the leader of the Musketeers, receiving nothing but a stern nod in return. Treville did not look pleased.

In the short time he had been with the company, Athos had come to learn that Treville cared deeply for his men. The only thing that surpassed that feeling was his devotion to the King and through it, his protectiveness of the Musketeers' reputation and honor. A display such as this had put the reputation of the entire Musketeer regiment at risk and it was easy to see that the Captain wasn't happy about it. "Your Majesty. Cardinal," Athos acknowledged as he passed the King and Richelieu, both men eyeing Aramis with a displeased air.

"You need to take care that in the future, your men put their duty above their bottle, Treville," Athos heard the King admonish, followed by some reply from the Cardinal that was too soft to be heard but which seemed to elicit the laughter of all surrounding the small group.

Athos could feel his blood boiling inside his veins.

"Like 'e can talk much!" Porthos growled from the other side, clearing having noticed the exchange. "Bunch of drunkards, those Red Guards are!"

From the constant backward glances, it was apparent that Porthos was as eager as Athos to go back and make the Cardinal swallow whatever words of prejudice he had uttered against the Musketeers and their friend.

Between them, Aramis remained silent. He had accepted their support when leaving the rest of the crowd behind, but had quickly shaken himself free of their touch as soon as they were some distance away. The farther they got him, the lesser the tremors that racked his body.

Athos observed him from the corner of his eye. He had some experience with mornings when he had been forced to complete his daily duties whilst nursing an ailing head and stomach, his penance for indulging in too much drink the night before. It was the lesser of two evils for him, really. Either that, or push through the day with no sleep at all because his demons had kept him awake the duration of the night. At least with the bottle, he found some rest.

Aramis didn't look like someone dealing with a night of abusing the bottle, but then again, he could not recall a time when he had seen the other man lose himself to wine. Tipsy, pliable, even musical after drinking spirits, yes, but never truly drunk enough to relinquish control over his surroundings.

What Athos had just witnessed as Porthos was forced to wrestle Aramis away from Poitier was a man who had no idea of where he was or what he was doing. If alcohol was the cause for such behaviour, it was a brand Athos had never tasted before. And such was a thing that he doubt to exist in France.

Furthermore, Aramis had been with them at the tavern the previous night. Athos had seen the ridiculously low amount of wine Aramis had consumed. Unless he had returned to his quarters and consequently drowned in a barrel of wine, there was no reason for him to be the slightest affected.

"Are you well enough to ride?" he asked the silent man walking by his side. Aramis seemed to move in a daze, walking forward until someone told him otherwise. His mind, it seemed, was still very far away.

As if to prove his point, Aramis stared at him, completely at a loss for what to say. "I'm fine," he whispered, his voice hoarse as if it was a struggle to get even those two words out. "Like the King said, shouldn't have indulged in so much wine last night," he added with a faint smile.

Athos exchanged a look with Porthos as Aramis struggled onto his horse. The fact that their friend had found it necessary to lie about what had truly happened did not bode well.

~§~

"Captain, a word," the Cardinal commanded as the other man was about to leave. "Walk with me."

Treville resisted the urge to pull at his hair in a way that would be most unbecoming of a man of his station. He had finally managed to assure the King that the whole unpleasant situation with the 'drunken' Musketeer would be dealt with, and he couldn't wait to return to the garrison and check on the state of his men. Poitier had seemed shaken, but relatively well, even managing to mount his own horse after having his wound properly bound. And Aramis...Treville didn't know what to think of the young man's actions, but he was certain that something was not right.

"How can I be of service, Your Eminence?"

The First Minister stopped, his distance from the rest of the court as calculated as his words. He had no intention of having their conversation reaching unwanted ears. "What do you intend to do about your man, this...Aramis?" he asked, his gaze glacial and judging as he waited for an answer.

Treville's eyes narrowed. It wasn't like the Richelieu to take such interest in the matter; he had nothing to gain from it, beyond the immediate and frugal opportunity to make the Musketeers and their Captain look like fools in the eyes of the King. And that he had already taken full advantage of. "What do you mean?"

Richelieu raised a thin eyebrow. "Even by Musketeers' standards, the man is clearly not right in the head and his actions today could have placed His Majesty in grave danger...surely even you can see that he is not fit to serve the King?"

The Captain clenched his jaw to stop himself from answering the Cardinal to the letter. "How I deal with my men is my concern alone," he ground out. "I will see to it that the matter is resolved accordingly."

The Cardinal nodded, resuming his walk. "See that you do," he voiced with an air of profound wisdom. "After all, given recent events, one has to wonder about the presence of unstable minds inside your garrison and what troubles they might have caused."

Treville's blood ran cold. How dare the man speak in such terms when he knew full well the sacrifice that the Musketeers had made in service of their King at Savoy? "What are you insinuating? Speak clearly!"

Predatory eyes landed on him, revealing the cunning politician hiding behind the clerical robes. "There was some kind of attack awhile back, was there not? An explosion…of sorts?" he asked, feigning ignorance. "During questioning, the apprehended culprit implied that he had gained inside help with his ventures...after today's events, one must wonder, no?"

Treville blinked, his anger consumed by curiosity. For three months the Cardinal had kept the criminal in his prison, denying Treville all access. He had no idea that the prisoner had talked. "When were you planning on sharing this information?"

Richelieu gave him a look. "I believe I just did," he pointed out, before turning his robes with a flare and walking away.

"I wish to speak to the man myself," Treville demanded of the retreating figure.

The First Minister didn't stop. "I'll see that it's arranged," he voiced at a distance.

~§~

More AN:I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my two wonderful and brilliant betas who have made this entire work even remotely readable. Laurie_bug, you are absolutely amazing in spotting and fixing all of those horrible grammar and syntax mistakes that I make by the tons; Jackfan2, you can turn a sentence around in the most delicious way and no one holds my quivering hand more than you. Thank you both, from the bottom of my heart! This story would not have been possible without either of you ladies!